


The Best Relic

by intotheruins



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crack, Frottage, I REGRET NOTHING, Massage, Other, This might count as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 08:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11710845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheruins/pseuds/intotheruins
Summary: Stephen's had a long day. The Cloak helps relieve the tension.





	The Best Relic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [karmascars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/gifts).



> This is [my-wayward-karma's](http://my-wayward-karma.tumblr.com) fault. It was also WAY TOO MUCH FUN TO WRITE *cackles* Have fun, and do not take anything too seriously ;D.
> 
> Also, I am ignoring that Mordo left at the end of the movie for REASONS.

Stephen is exhausted.

He's spent the day training with Mordo. Sparring rather than spells, which made no sense to him before Kaecilius. He couldn't figure out what fighting had to do with magic, didn't know that they were training him to do so much more than heal his hands until it was too late.

Now, he's the Master of the New York sanctum, and the sparring is good for him. Keeps him on his toes, fit and ready, but Mordo is merciless and always sends him home with more bruises and aches than Stephen thinks is necessary. He could, of course, go out and get some painkillers, or possibly even guilt Mordo into at least massaging his shoulders, but the thought of leaving the bed he's just fallen face-first into is pure agony.

There's a quiet rustling to his right, but he doesn't pay it much attention. He's used to the Cloak by now, has finally accepted that the damn thing isn't just magic, it's _sentient_. It's no longer bizarre to look up and find it shuffling through his music selection, or to say something to it and have it understand. It even makes more noise now, after a few incidents where Stephen was so badly startled by its presence that he cracked his head against walls or shelving. 

There's another rustle before the Cloak glides over him, the collar patting at his head in the strange way Stephen has come to recognize as its version of saying hello.

“Hi,” Stephen mutters back, voice partially muffled by the pillow.

He turns his head to breathe a little easier, but otherwise doesn't move. The Cloak continues to pat him on the head for a few seconds, then settles over his back. It has weight to it, when it wants to, and usually Stephen finds it comforting. Not so much when it's pressing right into tight muscles—Stephen hisses, shoulders hunching in an attempt to escape the discomfort. The weight is gone in an instant, though Stephen can still feel the Cloak hovering just above him. The collar begins brushing small, frantic circles into his cheek:  _why are you distressed?_

“Mordo beat the crap out of me,” Stephen grumbles. The circles go from frantic to slow, soothing. “He's just worried. He doesn't want me to get hurt. Really hurt, anyway.”

The collar pulls away from Stephen's cheek. There's a flurry of rustles, then a tap at his lower back, at the edge of his shirt. When Stephen doesn't move, the tap comes again, just a touch harder.

“What?” Stephen partially lifts his head. The Cloak is tapping repeatedly now. “What, you... hey, hey! Okay!” The Cloak has now wriggled a corner up under his shirt and is tugging insistently. “Fine, calm down, just...”

Stephen sighs and struggles into a sitting position. He pulls off his shirt, and the wrappings around his hands while he's at it, before collapsing face-down again.

“Happy?” He mumbles.

The Cloak settles over him—gently this time, avoiding the bruise along his ribs and the other high on his shoulder. The fabric is soft, and warm from Stephen's body. He sighs and relaxes into the bed—he can probably get to sleep like this.

Then the Cloak starts to move, a strange, rolling motion, just firm enough to dig into his sore muscles. Stephen groans. He tenses briefly at the pain, but it's a good pain and he soon relaxes into it, lets the Cloak work out knots and tension until he's a boneless mess sinking deeper into the mattress.

“I love you,” Stephen mumbles after what has to be at least half an hour of this. He gropes a hand back until he can pat the Cloak. “You are the best relic.”

The edges of the Cloak flutter, and Stephen swears he can feel it warming further against his skin. He chuckles at the thought that he's made it do some magical equivalent of blushing.

He's on the edges of sleep, warm and surrounded in soft fabric, when he notices something... well. Odd. The back corners of the Cloak have snuck just beneath the waistband of his pants to trace soft patterns into his hips. He freezes, and the Cloak freezes with him.

“What are you doing?”

For a second, there's nothing but stillness. Then the Cloak gently tugs at his waistband.

“Uh...” Pushing himself up on his elbows, Stephen twists to get a look over his shoulder. One corner of the Cloak is now slipping away from his hip, wriggling in further to... oh holy hell, _cup his ass,_ is this...? No, he must have fallen asleep. He's just touch-starved and his dreams are saturated in magic.

He pinches his forearm, hard. Leaves little white crescents in the skin, and flinches at the sting of it racing through his nerves.

Goddamn it. Not dreaming.

Maybe it just wants to massage his legs. It can't possibly be trying to do what he thinks it's trying to do.

The Cloak tugs again. Gently, a suggestion and not a demand. Heat pools in Stephen's cheeks, spills down his neck and into his chest. It would feel nice, if it's just wanting to massage the rest of him. And if not, if it's... what he thinks it is... well. That wouldn't be so bad, either.

Fuck, is he actually considering this?

“...okay.”

Stephen taps the underside of the Cloak until it gets the message and hovers over him a few inches. He rolls onto his back, fingers shaking just a bit more than usual as he struggles with his pants. This is insane. He's going to... no, it's probably just going to keep doing what it was doing. It's not like the Cloak understands what nudity might mean to a human. Does it?

Oh, fuck it. Stephen hasn't been touched in far too long, and clearly the Cloak wants to be doing what it's doing.

Still, he tries to leave his boxers on as he shoves his pants down and kicks off his boots in one go. The Cloak has other ideas. It tucks two corners into the waistband and starts to pull them off as well, pausing when a strangled yelp escapes Stephen's throat, but continuing when he can't come up with a real objection.

A moment later he's naked, hands fisted in the sheets to keep from crossing them over his chest. He closes his eyes. He can feel his heart pounding in his throat, despite knowing all the medical facts that tell him it isn't _really_ trying to leap right out of his mouth. His cock is still soft against his thigh, but starting to thicken with interest—it, of course, doesn't give a damn that the one doing the touching happens to be a sentient article of clothing.

A knot of hysterical laughter catches just behind his teeth, though Stephen doesn't quite manage to keep back a series of giggles.

The Cloak settles over him a moment later, chasing any humor away in favor of sucking in a startled breath. It's big enough to cover him from neck to ankles, still warm from Stephen's body and some of its own magic. Stephen opens his eyes and immediately shuts them again—it's just too surreal.

One corner of the collar draws a soothing circle into his cheek. The rest stays still until Stephen begins to relax, one muscle at a time giving way until he's limp against the mattress. Only then does it start to move. Lightly at first, rippling over and around his calves and thighs, kneading at them the way it kneaded his back before. Stephen sighs, tips his face into the touch against his cheek.

Maybe it really does just want to continue the massage.

The Cloak starts kneading at his chest, and Stephen is maybe a minute or so from falling asleep.

In one smooth motion, a part of the Cloak encircles Stephen's cock and cups his balls. His eyes snap open as it starts a series of short ripples—his cock goes from mildly interested to hardening in a matter of seconds. His hands, which went limp as he edged closer to sleep, curl tightly into the blanket. He presses his head back into the pillow, eyes wide and locked sightlessly on the ceiling, mouth open around a low, helpless whine.

“Oh god,” he gasps. This seems to only encourage the Cloak, as the ripples become firmer, more intense. It's everywhere at once, tightest around the head of his cock, pulling back the foreskin and rubbing precome around the slit. Smooth fabric slides over his balls, cupping and fondling the sac one moment and making light passes over it the next, leaving Stephen to groan and buck his hips up for more. He spreads his legs wider, feels so incredibly dirty for a moment and can't help but love the way it seems to drip down his spine, making him shudder. The Cloak presses more firmly into him in response.

Just as Stephen's head starts to thrash against the pillow, the Cloak brings its edges up to his thighs and begins kneading, slowly working inward. Stephen bites his lower lip when he realizes where it's headed and spreads his legs even further for it, beyond caring about whether or not this is weird. He just wants to come.

On his sentient Cloak. That he will be wearing later, as if nothing happened.

A desperate, strangled cry gets mangled in his throat just as one corner of the Cloak slips behind his balls to press firmly into his perineum, and that's it, that's all he needs.

He hasn't had much chance to masturbate since he came to Kamar-Taj, but when he has even the nice, languid sessions in the bath haven't felt like this—like the orgasm is pooling from his pelvis and seeping through his limbs, syrupy-slow without losing its intensity. He's nearly silent through it, mouth open and eyes squeezed closed, back arched off the bed as he chases every last bit of pleasure the Cloak is wringing out of him.

There's a second where it becomes too much, but the Cloak just keeps going and Stephen's hips stutter away, a whimper falling from his lips. It lets him go then, lets him sink into the mattress in a quivering mess, eyes still closed. It settles over him while he tries to calm his breathing, and it takes him a few minutes to realize it's still rubbing little circles into his cheek.

Wriggling one arm free, Stephen pats the Cloak gently. “Definitely the best relic,” he murmurs, and grins when he feels it warming against his skin.

He falls asleep like that, boneless and sated, one arm slung over the Cloak and the Cloak's collar nuzzled up under his chin.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A New Adventure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16038791) by [WhisperingMagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperingMagpie/pseuds/WhisperingMagpie)




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